


Party Poison

by ActiveAggression



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: A Frank-centric exploration of bandom relationships, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Costumes, House Party, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12850956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActiveAggression/pseuds/ActiveAggression
Summary: Prompt: Everyone thinks we came to this party as a couple because our costumes match what’s your name AU





	Party Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome. I made an honest to god graph for this fic to keep track of everyone's ages. I couldn't keep all the characters at their correct corresponding ages because they're meant to go to school together and like, Tyler is five years younger than Patrick. I instead tried to keep the age differences within the bands consistent. 
> 
> So ages: 
> 
> Year 11: Patrick (15). Joe (15). 
> 
> Year 12: Frank (16). Tyler (16). Spencer (16). Josh (17). Ryro (17). Brendon (17). 
> 
> Year 13: Mikey (18). Jon (18). Andy (19).
> 
> Left school: Pete (20). Gerard (21). Ray (21). 
> 
> (These year levels are based off my country's school system. So, sorry everyone else.)

Frank stares apprehensively at the house before him and can’t help but think, ‘Brendon doesn’t even like parties.’ This is quickly amended to, ‘Brendon doesn’t like  _ throwing  _ parties,’ because saying Brendon doesn’t like parties is like saying Mikey Way doesn’t like unicorns or Pete Wentz doesn’t like eyeliner. 

While Brendon is not the kind of guy to  _ throw  _ parties, he is absolutely the kind of guy to make an absolute fool of himself at one. He’ll show up dressed in something ‘avant garde’ (read: completely ridiculous), drink far too much, find the power tools, and attempt to dig his way to Russia through a neighbouring back lawn. Brendon fucking  _ loves  _ parties.

If there is a party going on, invited or not, Brendon Urie will be there. 

‘But,’ Frank thinks desperately, ‘he  _ hates _ throwing parties’ which is all well and good - Brendon can like and dislike whatever he wants - but it doesn’t explain the debauched state of the house before him. Frank had naively assumed that since Brendon hated it so much, he would be bad at throwing parties. 

Apparently not. 

(Sure Frank remembers the time Brendon tried to explain his hatred of throwing parties which started as, “but then I’d have to organisation and  _ responsibility _ . I just wanna have a good time,” and ended as, “I’m a terrible host. I’m not even that good a person. I’m not even a person sometimes...” 

Possibly, Frank should’ve taken this as a sign that Brendon’s aversion stemmed deeper than just an inability to throw good parties. But after a quiet, pensive minute Brendon had perked back up as if nothing had happened and asked, “what do you think Ryan Ross tastes like?” so Frank had discarded the entire conversation as drunken babbling.)

Brendon’s house is shining. Bare bulbed strings of lights are twined around the trees outside, up columns and around windows. Through the windows, Frank can make out even more string lights, all casting a deep yellow glow and lengthening the shadows further and further until they lick at Frank’s battered green converse. 

Music seeps warmly from the inside. It’s not exactly party music, but more like the kind of music you listen to while curled up on a worn out couch, feeling too much, thinking too much, lamenting on the state of the world. In short, Ryan Ross music. 

The entire house is decked out like some huge shrine of Ryan Ross, which isn’t exactly surprising considering it is his birthday party,  _ and  _ said party was organised by Brendon, who is painfully in love with Ryan Ross. 

Brendon did get one thing wrong though. In amongst his frantic planning, he somehow completely forgot about Ryan being a social recluse, and invited almost the entire school. Even the jocks. 

Initially Frank wasn’t going to attend at all, for jock reasons (even after Pete’s impassioned speech in Mikey’s kitchen about how the jocks would never show up to Brendon Urie’s party anyway, ‘cause they hate him and everything he stands for. Which may have been a good point, but was far better put to use when Mikey arched a single eyebrow and asked why Pete knew any of this when he finished school two years ago. Interestingly, Pete turned pink and refused to answer) but Brendon had other ideas and some very colourful threats for what would happen to Frank if he didn’t attend said party. 

 

So here he is, shoes sinking into the damp grass of Brendon’s front lawn, before the veritable shrine to Ryan Ross that Brendon’s house has become. 

Pete was, he notes, wrong about the jocks. They’re everywhere. They probably saw the colourful posters Brendon printed and forgot about their hatred of all things gay in favour of the possibility of drunk girls. He’s not sure what possessed Brendon in his party planning that convinced him Ryan Ross would appreciate watching jocks try to pick up women. 

Frank sighs, watching the door with a kind of resolute despair. He knows he isn’t going to like it, but he’s here now so there isn’t much point in turning back. 

The party’s already overflowed, leaving the door open but crammed full of bodies and the front yard covered in beer bottles and confetti. 

Everyone seems to be dressed in some kind of costume - thank god. Frank hadn’t really been sure if the ‘costume’ part of ‘costume party’ was a joke or not. Brendon had been particularly giggly that day and Frank wasn’t sure if that meant he was planning something evil, or if he’d just seen Ryan. 

Frank dressed up regardless. He’d been fearful of what would become of him if he turned up without one and Brendon had been serious after all. Brendon’s not particularly scary, until you know him. Then it becomes very apparent he’s a man with almost no morals and even less self control. 

Frank’s pretty proud of his costume, especially when he looks at the other attempts around him. Slutty animal seems to be the key theme of the girls’ outfits, while the guys (read: jocks) have gone for a traditional phallic aesthetic. 

He pushes past a group of ranting schlongs, trying to badly flirt with two uninterested mouse girls. The front door is jampacked with people. He thinks he recognises one of them from his English class but isn’t really sure. They stare absently at him, so he guesses the feeling is mutual. 

The moment he enters the house, he can hear Pete. He’s saying something about the disadvantages of dating women, but all it really sounds like to Frank is, “date me Mikey, holy shit. Date me so hard.” 

Unsurprisingly, when Frank locates Pete he is with Mikey. They’re partnered up on one end of the sofa, the other end taken over by a bunny girl and her hotdog wearing friend. There’s not a lot of space left beside the massive foam bun, but Pete’s happily fixed this issue by - Frank arches a brow - sitting on top of Mikey. 

Pete’s in the middle of saying something, which Frank can only assume has branched off from the disadvantages of dating women speech, but he can’t really see how. 

“He’s got musician’s fingers,” Pete laments, stroking his own along Mikey’s, “and he’s so pretty. Mikeyway, so fucking pretty. I want - God - I want him so much. I’m a monster.” 

Frank isn’t sure how Pete’s drunk enough already to be blurting out his feelings while on top of his long time crush, but Pete’s kind of a disaster so it’s not exactly surprising. 

“You are aware you’re sitting on him right?” Frank asks. 

Pete’s head jolts up and he grins, apparently forgetting about his moon-over-Mikey thing. “Huh? Frank you’re here!” 

Mikey raises a silent eyebrow back. 

“You know you’ll crush the poor toothpick if you keep molesting him like that,” Frank says. Pete takes a moment to wrap his mind around the sentence, turns red and ushers Mikey up so he can sit back down on Pete’s lap. Mikey, having dignity, declines. 

“Sick costume,” he murmurs, leaning in so Frank can hear him. “Victor?” 

“Yeah, I didn’t think I could pull off Emily, you know.” 

“Oh yeah,” Pete shouts, snapping his fingers at them, “I didn’t know you knew Gee.” 

Frank blinks. “What?” 

Pete blinks back, equally as puzzled. Mikey pats him on the knee awkwardly and flashes a small private smile up at Frank. “Don’t worry about Pete. He drank half a bottle of vodka before the party started. I’m trying to make sure he… stays put.” 

Frank glances past Mikey’s elaborate hair at Pete. It occurs to him that, although Pete’s vaguely clutching a cliche red solo cup, it looks suspiciously clear and more like water than alcohol. He’s not sure Pete knows this. Pete probably thinks he’s drinking straight vodka.

“Stays put,” Pete scoffs, laughing. Some of his water sloshes out of his cup, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Put,” he giggles, “put pat… pat pat pat.” His giggles die and for long moment he looks more serious than Frank’s ever seen him. He blinks it away, but the smile he shoots Mikey looks strained and fake. “What do I do Mikeyway?” 

Mikey glances uncertainly at Frank, but reaches out his hand for Pete to latch onto. He pulls Mikey’s hand, until Mikey’s bent uncomfortably over the armrest and leans close to start whispering at him. 

Mikey nods and starts saying soft things back and Frank has never felt more awkward in his entire life. 

He lingers, not really sure where to go, or if he can go, or what to contribute when Pete’s too drunk to be hyper and Mikey’s being weirdly magnanimous towards Pete’s oh so obvious crush. When Mikey takes a seat on the sliver of couch beside Pete and wraps a comforting arm around him, Frank really thinks he should go. He’s not sure whether to say goodbye or just leave or if it would be inappropriate to do either. 

Thankfully someone dressed as a shower passes by and draws him into the floral depths before he blurts something like, ‘when the fuck did you two start banging then,’ which Mikey really wouldn’t appreciate. Shower guy waves a pink rubber gloved hand in Mikey’s direction, leaning in past Frank to do so. Frank feels hair trying to devour him as he gets into proximity and jerks his head away before it can manage. 

“Ray,” he greets, turning around but still bent far enough away that the insane Toro afro can’t attempt to eat his face again. 

“You guys pulled together a fucking sweet costume,” Ray says cheerfully. 

“Thanks?” Frank asks, but already he’s being expelled from the shower and deposited in the kitchen. Ray trundles off further into the house and Frank can’t help feeling a little hurt. Then again, Ray did save him from the horror that is Pete and Mikey and  _ feelings.  _ Thinking of it like that, Frank quickly decides to forgive Ray for abandoning him. 

 

The kitchen is like the holy grail of all things Ryan Ross. There are pictures everywhere, some of Ryan by himself but mostly of him and Brendon. There are no pictures whatsoever of Ryan with people that aren’t Brendon, which Frank chalks up to Brendon’s possessiveness. String lights have been wound around every possible windable surface, and the fridge magnets are words artfully arranged into poetry about the sun and the moon and tea in the garden. 

As if that weren’t enough Ryan Ross for one room, Ryan Ross himself is perched on the chipped tile counter, Brendon sitting down by his feet.

Brendon stares blearily at Frank. “Oh,” he mutters, “are you guys like together?” 

Frank can’t make much sense of this question. He thinks Brendon’s asking if he and Ryan are dating but Brendon already knows they aren’t. Frank also doesn’t think he would be grinning if that were the case. He tries to get more information from Ryan but he looks equally as curious in the answer. 

Frank really hopes he’s wrong about what Brendon’s asking. 

“No?” he answers. 

Brendon’s face falls. “That’s a shame, it would’ve been cute.” 

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees quietly. 

Frank officially has no idea what he’s being asked, but that’s okay. Mostly because there is the much more pressing concern of what the fuck Brendon’s wearing. 

It seems Ryan managed to talk his way out of an elaborate costume, instead donning some fairly sick eye makeup and a bandana. Brendon on the other hand, looks like he drenched his school uniform in glue and rolled around in a box of psychedelic buttons.

“Is that your uniform?” Frank wonders aloud and Brendon grins and nods enthusiastically. 

“Did Gee make yours?” he asks back, limbs sort of spasming like he thinks he should touch Frank’s trouser-leg but can’t quite get up the energy. 

“No Bren,” Ryan whispers, grabbing Brendon’s hand where he’s left it hovering, “they’re not together remember?” 

“Who the hell is Gee?” 

Neither answer. Ryan’s slid down from the counter to kneel beside Brendon’s prone form, cooing things at him, and doesn’t seem to hear. Brendon just grins blankly at Ryan’s hand and face, like it’s some sort of Christmas miracle. Nevermind that it’s only August. 

Frank figures he isn’t going to get much more from them and steps around them with a quick “happy birthday, by the way”. Ryan sort of nods absently and waves a hand around in a way that feels like an acknowledgement but is also something that Ryan just does sometimes. 

 

The kitchen is L-shaped and tucked into the other half is a fucking hoard of alcohol. It looks like there should be a dragon lounging among the bottles, doing nothing with them, just collecting collecting collecting. There are bottles upon bottles upon  _ bottles _ of the stuff - cheap beer, cruisers, spirits, mixers - and sitting amongst it all on twin desk chairs are two boys. 

Frank quickly identifies one as Tyler Joseph, a quietly hilarious guy who plays the ukulele in class to fob off the teacher. The other seems familiar, though Frank has no idea why. He has an inkling that his name is Josh, but isn’t sure enough to actually use it. 

They seem to be in a half state of uproarious laughter and deep conversation. Heads ducked together and with a private sort of smile gracing Tyler’s mouth, they kind of look like a couple. Frank hadn’t thought Tyler was dating, but he’s always been sort of reserved about his private life. He  _ could  _ be dating. 

The boy who could be Josh but Frank isn’t sure looks up then, fixes brown eyes on Frank and smiles. He looks like he’s made the same sort of assumption everyone else seems to have, whatever that assumption may be, but doesn’t feel the need to ask. Instead he turns to Tyler and draws him back into conversation. 

Frank isn’t sure what their costumes are meant to be, aside from awesome. They’re both in black; Tyler in what looks to be a combination hoodie and coat, Josh wearing a shirt so dark, the folds all fade together into one shadowy shape. 

They seem to have taken a page from the Ryan Ross book of sick eye makeup and have made that the entire costume. Or, well, Josh has. Bright red shadows his eyes, the exact same shade as his hair. Tyler on the other hand, doesn’t have any eye makeup. He instead has neck, hands and arm makeup - just streaky black paint layered over his skin. Little strips here and there are pale and paintless, and Frank can see corresponding black marks crawling up the back of Josh’s neck, like the stripes of a zebra. 

Somehow it’s obviously a costume that fits together. A couples costume, if you will. Frank can tell just from looking at them that they’re here together, and they are together. As if to prove him right, Tyler reaches forward and entangles his and Josh’s fingers. They share a smile and Frank abruptly comes to the conclusion that he should really stop staring at these two having their moment. 

He bends and snags a bottle, wine by the looks of it. It makes him feel a little fancy, until he realises it probably cost nine dollars and he’ll have to drink it from the bottle. 

Josh and Tyler are kissing when he leaves, paint streaking black through Josh’s hair. Atop their throne of alcohol, they look like kings.    
  


Frank has to stop outside the door for a long moment, short of breath and sharply aware of his heart hammering away under the cheap blue fabric of his tie. He’s not sure how or even why, but those two had been intense. Like they breathed for each other or something. Frank isn’t sure he’s felt like that about anyone ever. 

“You must be Frank,” someone says from down the hallway. It’s a little dark, which is what Frank blames for how he leaps three feet in the air and suffers a mini heart attack. 

“What the fuck,” he breathes. He’d been so caught up in the weird intensity of Josh and Tyler, it was like the rest of the world had ceased to be. Evidently the world disagreed wholeheartedly with his impression of it. “Yeah?” he asks belatedly, turning to find a figure standing beside him, grinning in amusement. 

It takes him a moment, but his brain finally processes what he’s seeing and the whole night makes a lot more sense; Pete’s ramblings, Brendon and Ryan’s questions, even Ray’s “you guys.” 

“Or,” the person continues, “that’s what I’m assuming from how everyone keeps asking if I’m dating you.” 

Frank nods. It’s hard to do much more than that after he realises how fucking pretty the person talking to him is. No one this pretty ever talks to him. The figure hugging dress and exposed shoulders are making his stomach flutter and the guy, cause yeah - it is a guy, dress and effeminate features be damned, has done some seriously sick makeup effects that make Frank want to crawl into his lap and whisper about how talented he is… while shamelessly grinding up against him. 

Fuck he’s pretty though. 

And dressed as the counterpart to Frank’s Victor from Corpse Bride costume. Everything makes  _ way  _ more sense now. 

“You’re - uh - Gee then?” Frank asks dryly. The smile he gets in return makes him feel a little weak in the knees. 

“Gerard,” he returns, “but I suppose I can be your Emily for tonight.” 

Frank is almost, but not quite, socially capable enough to take that as the flirting is blatantly is. Instead he nods, smiling absently, and wonders what Gerard could possibly mean by that. Is it just a costume reference? Is it a ‘I guess you’re cute enough, you’ll do’? Or is it a ‘let’s go make out and maybe if you play your cards right, I’ll let you climb under my skirt and suck me off’?

God Frank hopes it’s the last one.

“Well... you’d better not leave me at the end,” Frank says because he’s awkward as shit and doesn’t know how to inject the words, ‘let me suck your dick,’ into normal conversation. 

“Alas,” Gerard begins dramatically, “I’ve never been able to figure out how to become butterflies. Guess you really are stuck with me.” 

“I’m not bothered,” Frank shrugs, which at least doesn’t sound as desperate as ‘never leave me’ or ‘be the Josh to my Tyler’. Of course then Frank has that thought in his head and he really needs to know- “Would you be the Josh to my Tyler Joseph, or would you be the Tyler Joseph to my Josh?” 

He thinks he hears a snorting kind of laughter coming from inside the kitchen, which could indicate those two stopped being the centre of each other's worlds for a second and heard him. But that would be embarrassing, so Frank ignores it. 

Gerard manages to look perplexed and amused. “Josh Dun?” he asks. 

Frank doesn’t know if the guy in the kitchen is even called Josh, so he elects to just shrug. 

“I think I would be the Tyler Joseph,” Gerard finally says, “if only because you seem more likely to have abs than I do.” 

“Josh has abs?” Frank asks immediately, quickly following it up with, “what? I don’t have abs.” Which, yeah. He’s not smooth. He’s never been smooth. Sure, he’s never managed to sound interested in another dude  _ and  _ talk himself down in the same sentence before but it’s definitely within his spectrum of awkwardness to do so. 

If Mikey were here he would be laughing his skinny ass off. 

“How do you not know about Josh Dun’s abs?” Gerard asks incredulously, “what kind of high school student are you?” 

“Wha- hey!” Frank manages, and then, without any proper comeback, blurts, “what kind of high school student are  _ you?”  _

Gerard smirks, and Frank startles at the sheer mind-numbing hotness of it. He keeps his eyes firmly on Gee’s face, but his brain is all over the show. It’s obsessing over Gee’s hair and lips and shoulders and complete lack of cleavage and dick - there’s a dick - and what do you know, Frank quite likes dick - Frank  _ loves  _ dick - dickdickdick. 

 

Frank’s thinking so hard about Gerard’s dick and hoping like hell Gee can’t tell, that he barely even registers someone walking into him. He only notices when the person goes, “oh sorry,” and tries to shuffle past. 

Frank’s gonna let them go but then he registers the trucker cap and all thoughts of dick disappear because  _ what the fuck is Patrick doing here!? Seriously!? _

He whips a hand out quick-fast and snags Patrick’s wrist, pulling him back. 

Gee frowns from the other side of the corridor and Frank shoots him a quick apologetic look. God, they were almost flirting. God, this is a mess. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he questions and Patrick at least has the decency to look guilty. 

“Joe brought me,” he mumbles. 

Frank frowns. “Who brought Joe?” 

“Andy,” Patrick responds instantly. He hasn’t quite worked out the ‘don’t be a nark’ facet of high school yet, which is probably because he’s  _ fifteen. _ “I think him and Joe are hooking up.” 

“Eww,” Frank responds instantly, because Joe’s also fifteen and he has to be grossed out by his sexual activities for the two days between now and Joe’s own birthday. He shoots Patrick an assessing look, “why’d you come anyway? You hate parties.” 

Patrick flushes from his trucker hat down to his cardigan. “I like parties,” he mutters, looking decidedly shifty. 

“You don’t,” Frank corrects. 

“Okay maybe I don’t,” Patrick agrees. He shifts again, bites savagely at his lip and finally gives a defeated sigh. 

“There’s this boy…” he starts. 

“He invited you?” Frank surmises. 

Patrick winces. “No, uh, not exactly.” 

“You heard he was going to be here and stalked him,” Frank deadpans. He hears Gerard giggle, which is cute. Frank sighs and catches Patrick’s eyes. “You can’t be here,” he says, feeling like an irritating big brother, “you’re  _ fifteen _ .”

Patrick glares at him. “So what? You’re sixteen. That’s nothing.”

Frank hears Gerard’s giggle cut itself off. He sighs harder. No salvaging anything now. He turns to Gerard. The boy is wide-eyed and probably not a boy if he’s reading the situation right. He’s probably in university being cool, certainly too cool to want to hook up with an almost-seventeen-year-old like Frank. 

“You don’t know Ryan, do you?” he asks. 

Gerard shuffles his feet, dress swaying. “I - no - I’m Mikey Way’s older brother.” 

Frank feels Patrick trying to pull away and he tightens his grip. He wants to be mad and stomp his feet and grill Gerard about why exactly it is that he’s been Mikey’s friend for seven years and has never been told about a brother. He wants to punch a wall and maybe Mikey’s stupidly pretty face, but he has to get Patrick home before he gets preyed on by - well, probably Pete - or even worse gets drunk and  _ dies. _ Patrick’s clumsy. It could happen. 

Frank sucks in a breath, counts to ten and releases it as a sigh. 

“I didn’t know he had an older brother,” Frank mutters, “whatever. I’m sixteen.” He fiddles a sharpie out of his pocket and scrawls his number on the post-it note stack Mikey gave him last Christmas. The notes are unicorn shaped. “Here’s my number. Do what you want with it. Call me, don’t, whatever. I want to suck your dick, but you probably think I’m too young, and right now I have to deal with this” - he jostles Patrick slightly - “nice meeting you.” 

He starts pulling Patrick down the hall but Gerard grabs his suit blazer before he can really get anywhere. “Wait,” Gerard says, “you’re Frank Iero aren’t you? Mikey’s friend?” He waggles the post-it in Frank direction. “I recognise these.” 

Patrick steps on Frank’s foot. 

“That’s me,” Frank answers, kicking Patrick in retribution. “But I really do have to go deal with this.” 

“Oh,” Gerard mumbles, “right, of course.” - his eyes go wide - “did - wait did you say you want to suck my dick?” 

“Yup,” Frank answers, already half-way down the hall with Patrick in tow. “Call me.” 

 

Patrick does not make it easy to get him out of the party. He kicks and bites and swears and scrabbles at the doorway into the Ryan and Brendon side of the kitchen, refusing to let go until Brendon opens it. Brendon eyes them both, mouth suspiciously red, then sets his eyes on Patrick. 

“You…” he says squinting, “you aren’t supposed to be here.” 

Patrick finally lets go of the door. “Yeah-sorry-happybirthdayRyan,” he babbles and Frank figures if he were tall enough to see past Patrick, he’d be getting an eyeful of naked Ryan Ross. 

“Urgh, my eyes,” Patrick complains as they tramp through the living room. 

“If you aren’t ready to see naked people, you sure as hell aren’t ready to follow boys to parties,” Frank lectures, feeling really  _ very  _ like an older brother. “What do you think happens at parties Patrick? Cause it isn’t true love.” 

“I know that,” Patrick responds huffily, which is at least better than him answering knowingly because then Frank would have to worry that Patrick came here expecting to be defiled in a corner. 

Frank sighs. He wishes he’d been defiled in a corner. “Who’s this boy you’re chasing anyway?” he asks. He mentally flips through the boys in his year and Mikey’s, weeds out the straight ones and then adds them back in. Who knows what Patrick’s gotten himself into. 

“He’s…” Patrick trails off, halting Frank’s route to the door. Frank’s about to yank him, figuring Patrick’s decided to be difficult again, but then Patrick goes, “he’s right there.”

Frank whirls around, follows Patrick’s gaze until it lands on… oh. Oh fuck. There’s this small part of him that hopes Patrick’s staring at Mikey, who’s wearing a lot of leather and looking like a punk god, but Patrick already knows Mikey, and Frank just knows somehow that Patrick’s looking past Mikey… right at Pete. 

Pete is grinning, that big, gorgeous, too-much-teeth grin he has that sometimes makes  _ Frank _ feel a little weak in the knees. His solo cup of water from before has been abandoned somewhere and his hands are planted on his thighs, strong looking against his bright red girl-jeans and framing his crotch. He looks like the embodiment of hot, dirty, couch sex, even if he is slouched beside a jock in a hotdog outfit still. 

Frank looks at him and past that initial level of ‘Pete, urgh’ that Frank’s accrued over the years, he can only think that Pete looks like an invitation into a world of achingly slow kisses, tongue slipping over teeth, grinding hips together and lower, and for a quick moment Frank has this insane desire to slip between Pete’s parted thighs, wrench his girl-jeans down his hips and suck him off hard and fast until he’s coming right down Frank’s throat. 

Then Pete’s head tips back a little into harder laughter and the movement jolts Frank out of his thoughts. He looks at Pete again and he’s back to ‘Pete, urgh.’ 

He glances beside himself at Patrick and Patrick clearly hasn’t jolted back. His lip is caught between his teeth, being bitten red and sore, and he looks like he wants to do so much more than just crawl into Pete’s lap. 

‘Sorry kid,’ Frank thinks, watching him still, ‘him and Mikeyway are hitting that highway already.’

Or at least he thinks they are. Or at least, he thought they were until Pete glances over and his smoked out eyes widen. He stumbles to his feet, practically launches himself across the room - far from his usual patented bouncing amble - and stops in front of Patrick with this look on his face that Frank’s never seen before. 

“Patrick,” Pete breathes, a tanned hand reaching up and up towards Patrick’s cheek. Mikey’s watching it happen with this crease between his eyebrows but he doesn’t seem mad. He seems worried and Frank wonders if he misread the situation. Maybe Pete and Mikey aren’t doing anything. 

Maybe Pete’s dumb over someone else. 

Frank stills, sees Pete’s hand brushing Patrick’s cheek, hears Patrick’s pleased huff of a laugh. He can practically feel the soft smiles they share, and then they’re kissing. There’s not a huge height difference, but Pete leans down just a little and slots their mouths together. 

The Ryan Ross-esque music playing has a heartbeat behind it and a nice riff that keeps building higher and higher, vocals layered soft on top. Frank doesn’t think it’s just the  _ type _ of music Ryan listens to, but is actually one of the songs Ryan’s recorded in the crappy sound booths at school. It only makes sense that Brendon would have a copy at this point. 

Patrick’s cardigan sleeves are pooled over his wrists but his fingers are free enough to be tangled in Pete’s shirt. 

Frank doesn’t really watch them, just stands there staring at the floor. He knows he probably should have some kind of issue with Pete kissing Patrick. Patrick is small, kind of like a younger brother to Frank, not to mention he’s  _ fifteen _ . But even though Pete’s twenty and has kissed a hell of a lot more people than Patrick has, he’s also small, vulnerable, constantly in a state of hurting and insecurity, and has obviously been torturing himself over this; this age difference. 

Frank thinks about Tyler and Josh and their weird intensity and the way they fit together like missing puzzle pieces. He thinks he can feel something similar with Pete and Patrick, how Patrick breathes and Pete looks like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen; how Pete smiles and Patrick looks like he’s been struck dumb with a mallet. 

He’s not going to condemn this, especially not with Ryan Ross’s depressing  _ Before-Brendon _ lyrics encompassing the room. 

 

_ Someone I love _

_ Loves someone else _

_ Another day I lost _

_ All by myself _

 

Jesus, he forgot just how depressing Ross used to be when he thought Brendon was dating Jon Walker.

 

The song ends and Pete’s still kissing Patrick. Frank sighs, counts to ten and yanks Patrick away. 

They both look at him like he’s kicked a puppy. 

“Oh fuck off,” Frank snaps, “you’ve had your moment. You can have all the moments, I don’t care, but you are not having them here. Patrick’s going home.”  _ Before Frank loses him and he gets drunk and high and deflowered and dead.  _

Patrick tries to pull his hand away from Frank’s grip halfheartedly and groans, starts trudging along after Frank towards the door. 

They hit the damp air, step out onto the wet pavement and Pete appears alongside them, grinning and panting and wearing Mikey’s beanie. 

He smiles at Patrick’s expression - whatever it may be, Frank can’t see - and interlocks their fingers. “What?” he asks, “I thought I could walk you home.” 

Patrick stammers, blushes and ultimately ducks his head to hide his pleased smile. They hold hands for the entire walk to Patrick’s house, Pete chattering and bouncing and looking so happy that Frank has to wonder how fake Pete’s happiness is usually. 

Frank waits by the road as Pete walks Patrick to his door and hears Patrick’s delighted laugh as Pete no doubt makes a fool of himself. There’s some mumbling, then an insistent buzzing against Frank’s ass.  

He snags his phone from his back pocket, blinking at the text alert from a number he’s never seen and tries to remember who he’s given his number to recently. Oh. Oh right. 

Gerard. 

He unlocks his phone with what he wants to be practiced ease, but is actually more like clumsy fumbling. Pete reappears at his elbow before he even gets the fucking thing unlocked and is looking more and more mystified about why they’re still there. 

Frank gets his messages open. 

‘I may be interested in your offer’

Frank can’t stop his grin. Pete pokes him in the side and it still wont go away.

Pete pokes him again, makes to start ambling/bouncing/skipping down the sidewalk like a bunny rabbit on crack, and Frank doesn’t really want to kill his good mood but he has to say it before he chickens out.

“You know,” Frank begins conversationally, “you have to be careful… with Patrick.”

Pete side eyes him. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’d never try to take advantage, but you are five years older than him. That gives you a lot of power in your relationship. I guess what I’m trying to say is, you hurt him and I’ll kill you.” 

Pete snorts, eyes fixed on Patrick’s front door. “If I hurt him, I’ll kill myself.” 

It’s not funny but Frank laughs anyway, because he knows Pete wants him too. 

“Come on,” he says, resting a hand on Pete’s arm and using it to lead him away. “Let’s get you home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Unsure if this really qualified as underage, but I tagged it to be safe.


End file.
